


Bat-Shaped; Love-Shaped

by eon_s



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Cock & Ball Torture, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Food Sex, Gross, I'm Sorry, Improvised Sex Toys, Isolation, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Institutions, Mild Blood, One-Sided Attraction, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Potatoes, Rough Sex, Self-Harm, Sex Doll, Sexual Fantasy, Short, Solitary Confinement, Violent Thoughts, Weirdness, Why Did I Write This?, as lube, chattering teeth, friction burn, groucho glasses, homemade sex doll, i hope there aren't glaring typos in this, i'm sorry for many things with this, if I think of more tags I'll add them, in the form of, snake in a can, this feels rushed and i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:41:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26908303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eon_s/pseuds/eon_s
Summary: I just... it's what it says on the tin again. While in Arkham, the Joker makes an impromptu sex doll of Batman. And has sex with it. And it's gross and weird in as much as my other fics are gross in weird, and yet somehow more so??? I'm sorry.Also you don't need to have read my previous Batjokes fics to appreciate this (well, maybe you need to have read Metamorphosis) but it helps.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 10
Kudos: 32





	Bat-Shaped; Love-Shaped

**Author's Note:**

> I just...  
> I'm really depressed and miserable and my life is falling apart and instead of coping I just keep writing weirder and weirder porn? I'm sorry?? But then, people seem to be enjoying it. so... yeah enjoy I guess?
> 
> Idk. This idea wouldn't leave me alone. It's not as polished as my other fics but I've had a really shit day so I need to just get this done and accomplish something.
> 
> Notes:  
> Usual Joker being a douche when talking about other patients at Arham.  
> Uh... don't try any of these sex practices in real life?  
> Also the bit about people using yams as lube is true, but that doesn't mean they'd do it like this. Or that I endorse it when alternatives are available.  
> I just...  
> I don't know why I'm like this. T_T

* * *

Isolation.

Miserable, yes, because it is so boring, boring, BORING, but hardly the worst thing, really. For someone as creative as the Joker, solitary confinement is more of a challenge than a punishment – something to stretch his imagination to its limits. (Would he rather be outside wreaking havoc? Yes, of course, but at least he has room to _think_ when he’s on his own, instead of in some hallway breathing recycled air and listening to people whimper and wail all night. He doesn’t _need_ beauty sleep to look good, but he does relish it.)

It helps that even the most dim-witted of hospital staff seem to agree he poses no danger to himself (or, if he does, that they have stopped caring about it.) This means he gets all the luxuries that the suicidals lose out on – cutlery with his meals, a few personal effects to entertain himself, bed sheets and a pillow. Given that the beds in Arkham are hard and unyielding, the bedding doesn’t provide much comfort, but still, it’s something to _play_ with – to set the scene, so to speak.

You can do all sorts of things with a sheet. You can make a tent, you can run around in it as a ghost costume or a toga, and (of course) you can use it to hang yourself if you want to be _that sort of person._ The Joker has no interest in offing himself when there are so many opportunities for fun to be found within the four padded walls of the cell.

He has, on his person, one set of asylum-issue clothes and a few treasures – novelty chattering teeth, Groucho glasses, and a snake nut can with a gummy, rubbery, spring-powered snake inside. He has fun with such toys to begin with, but he has a special purpose for bringing in the items he chose when it was decided he be isolated – as much to give the other patients a break from him as anything else. He had had an idea then that required preparation – strategy – and the guarantee that no spoilsport guards would poke their noses in. It’s more elaborate than anything he’s tried to date but if it works – if it _works!_ What a treat, to bring the Bat to him, here – almost as much fun as the real thing.

Step one: get stark naked. Easily said and done – the Joker shimmies down to his chalk-white skin without issue and in the same fluid motion, has his clothes balled up and arranged deliberately, making a lump on the bed. His pillow becomes the second lump, and his balled-up sheet, the third. The steps follow, all according to plan. He arranges the lumps on the mattress in formation, the clothes and sheet next to each other, midway down the bed, and his pillow at the head, propped up against the wall. On it, he unsteadily positions the teeth and the glasses to make a crude likeness of a face - hardly a cowl, but it'll do. He pops open the snake nut can and leaves it uncapped, wedging it in the valley between the two lower lumps, then sits back on his heels to survey his handiwork.

Right, well, it’s not perfect. Even he can admit it pales in comparison to his usual schemes aesthetically, but beggars can’t be choosers. He would have preferred it if he’d had a bit of black fabric – maybe some leather or latex or something that would feel better against bare skin than the damned scratchy hospital sheets.

Oh well. He’s got an imagination and it’s brought him this far in life. While this certainly isn’t a high point, it’s far from being a low one.

He’d had to wait for a Friday – there’s always mashed potatoes with dinner on a Friday. Many moons ago, when flipping through a magazine in a psychiatry office, the Joker read an article about how the ancient Japanese made lubricant out of grated yams before the wonders of modern technology. Mashed potatoes aren’t all that different from yams, not in any way he can think of at least, so he has been banking on them serving his purposes on what he has personally dubbed ‘Date Night.’

The potatoes, scalding when served (no one can ever seem to get the food to a normal temperature in this place – it’s all either boiling or stone cold,) have cooled to something close to human body heat. The Joker scrapes them off his dinner plate and into the snake in a can. He gives the passage a few cursory prods with a finger. It feels a bit… starchy, but he supposes it’ll do.

Right then. Last step. Suddenly being faced with it, he finds himself suffering a bit of uncharacteristic _stage fright_ and it takes some doing to wake himself up for playtime. Shutting his eyes, he tries to fall into the illusion properly.

_I’ve got you now, Batsy. Got you right where I want you._

His big brute of a bat is helpless beneath him, tied up, immobile. He’s not happy about being bested, but he’s not struggling either, accepting his fate, his defeat, with a plastic grimace. The Joker licks the chattering teeth, probing along the sealed line of an unyielding mouth.

_Fine, keep your tongue to yourself – I’ll have your mouth open and gasping soon enough._

The Joker runs his hands over the meager stack of pillows and bedding. The biggest impediment to this being believable is the lack of mass. There’s no way that Batman would ever be so tiny and withered in real life. The Joker scowls as he lines his now-erect prick up with the snake in a can and presses in. Cold mashed potatoes give way before him as he carves a tunnel. His glans bumps against the rubbery snake and he hisses in sympathy.

What exactly is he fucking at this point? In his head, he’d envisioned it being that tight, warm channel of his enemy’s intestinal tract, but the hole is not tight enough and mostly he just feels potato, squishy and cool, where he knows the Bat would be all rock-hard muscle and molten heat.

_Maybe he’s sinking into something. Quicksand. That’s why his body’s not big enough. Yes – and the snake – the snake is his –_

The Joker gives a shudder and lurches forward, knees digging into the bare mattress. This will do – the Bat beneath him, not tied up but restrained by quicksand – no – by mud, in the harbour, pungent and thick, sucking at their bodies as they fight. The rubber snake is either a fight-erection or a death-erection; the Bat is either unconscious or finally defeated. It doesn’t matter – he is _hard,_ hard against the Joker, the two of them rutting like the animals they are in the cold, dense mire.

He tilts his head, the false nose digging into his lip as he bites and gnaws at clenched teeth. With his eyes shut tight he can almost see it, that grimace, that sneer, the sharp edge of a mask pressing a red line into his white skin. His hands come forward instinctively, curling at the empty air, strangling what isn’t really beneath him as his hips rut haphazardly, chaotic and deadly as a runaway train.

The snake in a can is sharper-edged than he was expecting, certainly not designed for a man to fuck. He feels the sting as his scrotum catches – the tiny cut is shallow, superficial, but it bleeds enough, hot and scarlet, staining the mash each time his balls swing forward with the motion of his thrusts.

The pain is lovely – lovelier than the now-cold potatoes – so the Joker pulls back, lowering himself directly to the stripped mattress. The rough weave and the obstacles of old springs only encourage him as he violently rubs his cock back and forth. His skin feels like it’s on fire, the friction burn tenderizing his already sensitive skin so that his eyes fill with involuntary tears. He is so close, so close now, lying on the Bat, fucking the bed, the earth, the mud. He sinks his teeth into the pillow and envisions firm flesh, pressing hard enough that if his enemy really _was_ in his jaws, he’d be bleeding at least as much as the Joker is.

It’s too much – he’s going to catch fire, his prick will go up like kindling. He throws himself backwards, lets his head dangle off the end of the bed. The head-rush is beautiful, perfect agony. He rakes his nails over his shaft and can already feel the rash forming. There will be blisters – he knows, hopes. He remembers his dream, the teeth, the Bat’s terrible teeth, and reaches for the novelty prop discarded on his pillow. He slips the head of his penis in between the two halves of the toy, winds it up, and holds it steady.

It snaps open and closed on him like a mousetrap and he howls. He shoots with such force that he gets a rope of cum up onto his own collarbone when he moves the chattering teeth away. The aftershocks are sweeter for every pass of his hand through the mixture of blood and mashed potatoes that coat his burning prick.

When his orgasm comes to an end, the Joker hauls himself inelegantly back up and onto the bed, lying back properly, his head knocking the Groucho glasses askew. He snorts and boops his nose against the false one, grinning wide.

“Was it good for you too, Batsy?”

He cracks himself up with that one, laughing until he feels like he might be sick. It’s a bit of a shame to waste a snake in a can – he doubts he’ll be able to get all the potato out – and he’s going to look like he has a venereal disease until the swellings go down on his penis, but in the moment, he can think of nothing more satisfying than lying with – not _his_ Bat, but close enough – sticky and sated and happy as the proverbial cat who got the cream.

Not bad for a D.I.Y. job, really.


End file.
